


About Us

by Meepy



Series: Lilypad [3]
Category: Vocaloid
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Family Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 13:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7576318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meepy/pseuds/Meepy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She paints a heart on the wall for every day she's in love with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	About Us

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely inspired by papiyon's song _About me._

 

 

He steps into her place and the first thing he sees is a fresh canvas in the middle of the space.

"You paint?" he asks as he follows her into her accommodations.

She grins. "Course I do. I'm a painter, y'know?"

He can see it. He can definitely see it. Something about her suits art. An image of her with her hair tied back, paint on her face and a paintbrush tucked behind her ear as she stands in front of a messy canvas, is clear in his mind.

It's quiet as he observes his surroundings, her home. It's a small place, quaint. There isn't much furniture or decor outside of the bare minimum. Instead, it looks like she fills her living space with her living itself: art. She stands to the side as he examines, her gaze darting about impatiently.

"Y'know, I like the way you look," she comments offhandedly, breaking the silence. She pauses as though just hearing the words for the first time herself. "Ah, not like that. Well, maybe like that.

"Though I meant more palette-wise," she elaborates, waving her hands around animatedly as she explains, "Your hair. And the way you dress. It's monochrome. But then your eyes are _crimson_ and it just _pops_.

"It's beautiful," she breathes.

He blinks.

Beautiful is not a word people use to describe him.

It's a word they use to describe people like her.

She continues, "It's kinda funny, though. That it's like the way you're dressing, it's like you don't want to stand out. But then it's like, wow, your eyes. Like, I couldn't stop looking at the red, _the red_.

"Red is exciting and interesting," she goes on, enthusiasm seeping clear into her voice.

He scowls because, "Red is the colour of blood."

"Love, too," she remarks.

"More like hate."

"I prefer the term 'fate' myself," she counters, a lopsided grin on her face.

 

・

 

He stops in his tracks.

On his commute, between bus transfers, he sees her in the local park with her art supplies. He stops because for the first time, he sees how she works. He sees her working. He sees a softness in her fierce, ocean blue eyes that isn't normally there, as she carefully lays down each brushstroke. He sees the way that her wrists seem to move so naturally, paint flowing across the canvas. He sees the life that's slowly being created with apparent ease.

He sees her.

"Your painting," he says, voice low, and it almost surprises him that he's suddenly close enough to her that they can somehow converse. "It's very nice."

She almost jumps in her spot, whipping her head around to face her company. There's a spark in her eyes as she looks at him with a smile. She lowers her brush, pushing stray bangs away from her face as she thanks him, "Huh? Really! So glad to hear that!"

He simply nods his head in acknowledgement.

"It's just landscape work, but, y'know. Gotta practice that. I mean, it's pretty and whatnot so I don't got a problem with it. I like painting pretty things anyway." Her grin is wide, bright. He finds his gaze drifting back and forth between her and the painting.

"So, uh, hey, what're you doing here?" she asks finally, head tilted to the side.

He blinks.

He looks at his watch and, " _Shit._ "

All he can hear is her laughter, clear as a bell, as he rushes off to catch the bus.

 

* * *

 

Oftentimes, she stops by his place. She comes in like a hurricane (no, no; a fierce ocean wave), eyes ablaze, her supplies and miscellaneous things strewn about his apartment. He doesn't make anything of it, because she doesn't bother him. Not much, at least. She feels inspired, she says, at his place.

Something catches her eye, she says.

It makes her want to paint.

So she can catch his eye, too.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, you should stop smoking," she suggests one day, casually. She reaches out and plucks the cigarette from his mouth, throwing the stick to the ground carelessly without a second thought. He grunts in response, rolling his eyes.

"Because it's that easy," he drawls.

"Mm. What was that saying? Something like, 'each cig you smoke is ten less seconds I get to spend with you'?" she ponders aloud.

"I don't really think it makes much of a difference," he comments. "Life's long enough as it is."

"They also say life is too short."

"They say a lot of things," he states.

She pouts. "Okay. Then do it 'cause I'm asking?"

"I'll try," is all he says as he pulls a cigarette box from his pocket and grabs another stick.

She bites her lip.

 

・

 

He wants to tear his hair out. Because it's like this, every single fucking time _it's always like this_. Head buried deep in his arms, he sighs, loud.

"Fuck."

He has to stop himself from knocking the lamp off of the adjacent table.

"Fuck."

His hands ball up into fists.

" _Fuck._ "

"Hey?" he hears and he just curses again because _why does she have to be here, why now, just_ why. He looks up, straight into the orbs of sapphire blue watching him and he glares, hard.

"Fuck off," he growls.

She seems to contemplate this for a moment before simply shaking her head, pulling up a seat next to him. "Wanna tell me what's up?"

"No," he hisses, burying his face once again.

"C'mon," she hums, "it'll help. Promise."

" _No._ "

"No?" she echoes, and he hears her sigh. There's a slight creak as she leans back into her seat.

He feels his head spinning, a migraine definitely coming on as his mind drifts back to his situation. He's so fucking _pissed_ because it's always like this, no matter what he does or says. He's always, always stuck with the short end of the stick and nothing to show for all of the fucking time and money and god damn effort, because _god damn_ , is it a lot of effort. It absolutely exhausts him in every sense of the word, each time.

It's just—draining.

And he doesn't think he can be drained anymore; drained anymore than he already is on his own.

He looks up again, squinting.

She's still there, glancing at him expectantly.

"Sister's in rehab," he mutters eventually. "Again.

"Can't do it anymore. I can't fucking do this anymore. I've lost track of how many god damn time's she's been there now, and that fucking says enough itself. She goes in and out and every single time, she comes running to me for help and I can't fucking help her when she can't even help herself," he rants, each passing word growing in volume. "It's like she's asking me to fucking _kill_ her, because hell, I _will_."

His hands are shaking in frustration and his vision keeps on fading between black and red and god he wants to just _punch_ something or someone and—

Her hands settle on his, fingers entwining.

There's such pity in her ocean blue eyes and he feels something flare up within him.

"Long as you don't peg me as an accessory," she muses, smiling lightly.

Voice soft, she adds, "'Cause I think you can do it. You can make it work."

She gently brings an arm around his shoulder, pulling him close until his face rests against the crook of her neck. She smells sweet, surprisingly sweet and her hand running through his sweat-soaked hair is oddly soothing.

Somehow, he feels slightly less drained.

 

・

 

"Y'know," she remarks, "blue is the colour of sadness. I mean, what else is it?"

He's on his way out the door but she grabs his arm as she speaks, stopping him. She tugs on the fabric lightly, urging him to turn around and face her.

He does.

"The sky," he answers lamely, coughing slightly into his fist.

"The sky is lots of colours," she states, letting go of his shirt. Her arms fall gently to her side.

"The ocean." He looks at the door again.

She purses her lips in response and raises her hands to her torso.

"How cliché," she mutters eventually, seemingly biting back words. "Though I guess I can't really complain. The ocean is ... can be nice.

"I like your fate more, though. I mean, it's like, every person you meet: it's fate. You're looking with fate through your eyes, because obviously it's _fated_. And I like that," she comments, directing her gaze to her fingers. She picks at her nails. "I like red. More than blue."

He can almost hear the _blue is sad_ running through her mind.

"Y'know, I guess it makes me, like, the ice to your fire?" she says softly, looking up at him again, a laugh in her voice.

"More like the other way around, if anything," he comments dryly.

She smiles, leaning in close. "Either way, I'm something to you, and you're something to me."

"I suppose," is all he says and he watches her, sees himself reflected in her sad-sky-ocean blue eyes. But soon he sees nothing, as she brings her face closer and closer to his.

Their lips touch.

It's short, chaste; she pulls away almost as quickly as it happened. He simply accepts, but doesn't reciprocate.

She smiles again, ocean blue sparkling.

He looks towards the door once more.

 

* * *

 

It just sort of happens.

She's in and out of his place all of the time and at some point, the majority of her belongings can be found in his apartment as well. Her clothes are filling his closet and there is at least one canvas in every room, the bathroom being the only exception ("The paint runs," she says). Light splashes of paint line his walls, a byproduct of her artwork. Her art supplies are scattered all around; on the floor, on his desk, under tables, stashed in a corner of his bedroom. He has to stay alert and keep his eye out for stray brushes and paint jars so he doesn't trip.

Sometimes she brings food over, sometimes she cooks some up and sometimes they eat together. Their talks over meals are quiet, mundane, meaningless. For the most part. She has a habit of bringing up some strange topics, at times.

Sometimes she sleeps over. He throws a spare blanket on her and lets her crash on his couch. But sometimes he'll catch her taking a nap in his own bed. And he lets her. He doesn't force her awake or demand she sleep elsewhere, not when he sees the slight smile on her lips, the steady rise of her chest as she takes long, even breaths. He doesn't really see a reason why he should.

Her visits get longer and longer, until he's more used to seeing her in his place than seeing an empty apartment.

Then it sort of clicks one day, when he spots her wearing one of his old, dirty aprons, fiddling with knobs on the stove: they're living together.

But he doesn't say anything, and neither does she.

 

・

 

She's stirring her coffee with a stick slowly, watching him as she takes sips of the hot beverage. He's seated across from her at his kitchen table, bent over and scribbling words down on a piece of crisp paper.

"So, uh, hey," she speaks up, her voice sounding particularly loud that mundane morning.

He glances up briefly from his work.

She rests her hands on the table, gaze darting to the side. "I was wondering if you remembered. Like, remembered when we—met?"

"You were with one of my clients," he answers simply, eyes on his paper and wrist moving again.

He can see her shake her head from the corner of his eye. She takes a breath and continues, "No. It was a while back. It was—I wasn't good. It was dark and I was just kinda there and I think I was screaming but I don't really know, maybe I was screaming in my head. I dunno, I was drinking and—and yeah.

"Everyone was just walking past me like I wasn't there, like I was nothing, and I guess I felt like nothing too. But then you stopped and I think you were kinda drunk too, but you stopped for me and we talked. I think. I'm not sure. But you said some—things; about yourself and your life and me and, I dunno, afterwards I just felt a lot better and it kinda took awhile for me to remember it. And that it was you," she finishes.

His hand stops and he mutters, "You must be remembering wrong, 'cause I wasn't there."

"No, you were. It was you," she disagrees without missing a beat. She starts to stir her drink again. "I mean, I don't remember it too well, but I remember enough."

"Must've been someone else," he reiterates, voice steely. He's absolutely adamant about this because he doesn't want to remember the silent screams, the navy blue paint that drained down the gutter, her broken whispers and himself, _himself_. Himself with the blood-red eyes, contorted face, hoarse voice and chest too tight. Because it didn't happen and he wasn't there with her and no one should've seen him, them; not like that, not at all.

"No, I'm sure," she breathes, voice a mere whisper. "Because I'd never forget the red, forget fate."

"You were drunk," he points out, chuckling humourlessly.

She sets her hands on the table again, the edge of her lips quirking up slightly.

 

・

 

He throws a plastic bag to her, almost filled to its capacity. She catches it with ease and peers at him curiously. "What?" she asks, a searching look in her eyes.

"Just look inside," he grunts in response.

Raising an eyebrow, she simply complies. Slowly, she brings the bag apart and he can immediately see the pleasant surprise on her face as she examines the contents. "W-What is this?" she stutters—the first time he's ever heard her stutter. She stumbles on her words all of the time, but she's never so uncertain that she stutters.

"I was passing by. Thought I'd get you something," he answers gruffly.

It's not a lie.

He really was passing by.

But he's well aware he didn't have to _stop_ by.

"I don't know much, so I just got things," he elaborates. Truthfully, he knows the rainbow and that's about it; he hasn't a clue regarding art supplies, or art in general. Yet he still did it. Pausing, he adds, "I got a lot of reds. Because you like red."

Her trademark grin spreads across her face and those ocean blue eyes of her are absolutely _shining_. Setting the supplies on the ground gently, she hurries over to throw her arms around him and exclaim, "I love you!"

He tenses slightly but then she buries her face into his neck, out of sight, and he eventually mumbles into her hair, "I love you, too."

He kisses the locks of gold.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes up in the morning, every essence of his body aches.

It aches in the sense that he's sore, tired, exhausted, sleepy.

It aches in the sense that he's at his limits, has been for a while. His head pounds and his chest contracts. His hands are shaking and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to let out a frustrated shout.

Not when she's here.

Not when she's lying in his bed, still asleep.

He looks at her sleeping so peacefully and it does little to alleviate the aching, the _eternal aching_.

He can't—

He really, really can't.

A soft chuckle escapes his lips because _he hates himself_.

 

* * *

 

When he comes home one night, after another long day of work, he sees her hunched by the wall, utterly focused on something he cannot make out. Setting his things down, he walks towards her crouched figure and peers over her shoulder.

She's painting.

On his wall.

"What the hell are you doing?" he blurts out, shock clear in his tone.

She doesn't look away from her work as she answers, "Y'know how I was getting paint all over your walls—"

"—So your solution is to put _more_ paint on the wall."

"—So I thought that at least I could make it look nice. By actually painting, yeah?" She huffs, turning away to reveal her work in progress. He blinks; he's not entirely sure what it is, but the deep reds and oranges blend seamlessly together in a horizon. Maybe it's a sunset, but he's not sure. Art has never been his forte.

"I see," is all he says, at a loss for words. Because he can't say that he hates it. Not particularly.

She laughs as she dips her brush into the vibrant crimson. Observing the wall briefly, she swishes a quick little heart next to her piece.

Then she pauses, and outlines the heart again.

And again.

And again.

She seems deep in thought, gaze softening as her wrist moves in repetitive, simple strokes.

"What are you doing?" he asks one more time, voice quieter than usual.

"Ah." She stops and turns to face him again. "I was just thinking—just thinking that I should paint a heart on the wall. For everyday I'm in love with you."

He blanches and before he can say anything, she holds her paintbrush out to him. "You should, too."

He takes a moment to compose himself, straightening his posture, and he shakes his head slowly. "I don't paint. That's more your thing."

"Ah. Yeah. Right." She lowers her hand and redirects her attention back to the wall. Her shoulders are slumped and he can't see her eyes as she says, "Then I can do it for you.

"I'll love you enough for the both of us," she whispers, more to herself than him.

He doesn't understand her, because it's evident that she realizes it yet _she's here_.

She's still here.

And she's painting hearts on his wall.

 

・

 

She always has the ideas to propel them forward. She always looks to the future as he concerns himself with the past and present. It's just how they are.

"When we get our own place, like, an actual place, let's paint the walls white. Then we can paint on it with whatever we want, like a fresh new canvas," she suggests, excitement clear in her voice.

But he doesn't know if he can see that: see himself painting on a white wall, painting hearts, just _painting_ , with her by his side. But what he can (maybe wants to) see is her smiling, so he nods his head and says softly, "I love you," before pressing his lips against hers.

She can't see his eyes.

 

* * *

 

"She's so fucking done," he growls. "I'm going to kill her, _kill her_."

He grinds his teeth together because he already has enough issues without her, issues he still can't handle, issues that don't need to be amplified by her constant tomfoolery.

He fucking hates her.

"Sister again?"

He can't even be bothered to dignify her with a response.

"Mm, well, I'm sure you can figure it out," she says loftily.

He has to stop himself from scoffing, because _he can't even figure himself out, how can he figure this out_.

"What?" he mutters.

"Uh. I just think you'll pull through. Or something," she mumbles. "Like, you don't really mean any of that, y'know?"

He breathes, deep.

"Why? he asks, finally. "Why? Just—why?"

She pauses a moment as though in thought, but he can see that she doesn't actually need to think about. "Because it means you care, doesn't it?"

He rolls his eyes. "Yes, wanting to rip someone's throat out—that is the epitome of caring."

"But you're mad because you care." She laughs lightly, humourlessly. "If you didn't care, you wouldn't get angry. Because you know she can do it, that she can be better. 'Cause you care a lot, so—"

"Stop," he cuts in, his voice weaker than he would have liked it to be. He directs his gaze to the ground, running his hands through his hair in a frustrated motion. " _Stop._ "

_Stop looking for someone who isn't there._

She stares, mouth parted slightly, brow furrowed.

"All right," she says eventually and she sounds so, so far away.

He hears some shuffling and in his peripheral vision, sees her slim legs slowly walk away.

What he didn't see were her outstretched arms, hesitant.

 

・

 

Their nights are quiet and their voices are hushed, mere whispers. Almost as though something will break— _they_ will break—if they speak any louder. He lies on one side of the bed, her on the other. He's always looking towards the window, a habit he's developed and one he cannot let go. He doesn't know about her, but she's never seemed to mind much about their sleeping arrangement.

But sometimes he feels her curl up against his body in the middle of the night.

And other times, he thinks he hears bitten back sobs, feels her grip tighten on the fabric of his shirt, feels a wetness seeping through the cotton.

His stomach lurches as he pretends to be asleep.

 

・

 

He doesn't know when, but he absentmindedly notes that she no longer paints on his wall.

She no longer paints hearts.

He stares, wondering, even though it's evident.

He counts over a hundred hearts and he can barely recall knowing her for so many days. But time has been slipping from his fingers for years now, it shouldn't be a surprise. It's not a surprise.

It takes a while for him to find a suitable empty space on his wallpaper. He bends down, picking up one of her many paintbrushes from the ground and dips it into a stray jar of paint. He traces the words, "I'm sorry" on the faded cream wall.

He stares at it for a moment before brushing over the font slowly.

Because for someone like her, words lack meaning, and for someone like him, words are meaningless.

 

・

 

When he lights a cigarette and brings it to his mouth, he realizes that it's been a whole week and he still hasn't burned through an entire box. He takes a long, drawn out breath, letting a puff of smoke slowly leave his lips. He stares at it momentarily before waving it away with his hand.

She's sitting beside him on the doorstep of the apartment complex, scraping the concrete with the heel of her sneaker. She glances at him from the corner of her eye and asks, "You been smoking less?"

She nods her head at the pack of cigarettes and nudges his foot gently with hers.

He blinks, pulling the stick out of his mouth briefly. "Yes. I have."

She moves her leg away, humming, "Mm. That's great!"

He looks at her, expecting a different response. Something more involved, more excited, more _oh my god! I'm so happy! 'Cause, remember what they say?_

He almost drops his cigarette.

All she does is smile a vapid smile.

 

* * *

 

It's another quiet night as she crawls onto the bed to join him. He's sitting upright, leaning against the bedpost as he reviews some of his workload. He fully expects her to lie down and drift off to sleep, as she usually does, but tonight she sits with him quietly.

"Y'know, fire melts ice, doesn't it?" she speaks up suddenly.

He glances in her direction but he can't see her eyes as she stares down at her hands.

After a moment's thought, he says slowly, "I guess you could say that's what it's fated to do."

"I guess," she echoes lightly.

The typical silence envelops them again as she continues to sit there with him, mouth shut and hands occupied with themselves. Finally, once he finishes examining his documents, he places them on the nightstand. He reaches to turn off the lamp, the lone light illuminating the room, but hesitates.

"Lily."

She looks towards him at the sound of her name. "Yeah?" she mumbles.

He gazes straight into her eyes, those sad-sky-ocean blue eyes.

And he kisses her.

"I love you," he breathes.

And for the first time, she cries in front of him because _I know, I_ know _, and I—  
_

 

・

 

When he wakes up in the morning, she's gone.

Her things are gone.

For a moment, he stares at his bedroom wall, vibrant and full of life with her artwork—a little less vibrant and full of life than it was yesterday.

On the ground by his feet, he finds a lone paintbrush, still damp at the tip.

He paints a heart on the wall.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> idk this oneshot ... I tend to have a lot of issues with, but whenever I re-read it there are still some things I enjoy a lot about it.


End file.
